


Royai Week 2014

by xslytherclawx



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Execution, F/M, Ishbal | Ishval, PTSD, Royai Week, War Crimes, young Riza, young Roy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xslytherclawx/pseuds/xslytherclawx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Royai Week prompts for 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riza thinks something very important to her has been stolen

Its place on the mantel was empty; the blank space had drawn her attention when she'd gone in to dust that morning. She didn't know what to do. Was there even anything  _to_  do? She knew perfectly well that she'd put it on the mantel, and that it was there the day before, but it wasn't there now. She'd even scoured her room, on the off chance that it was there... but no. It wasn't stuck in any of the bookcases, and it hadn't fallen on the floor. It had simply just vanished.

Well. “Vanished” wasn't the right word by far. Someone had taken it; there was no real alternative. She certainly hadn't misplaced it. She thought that perhaps her father had taken it, but she hadn't seen him all day, and she knew better than to interrupt his research... but he hadn't come down for breakfast, or for lunch, or for dinner. Riza tried to distract herself, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, during dinner, she asked the apprentice. She tried to seem nonchalant, but she was sure that it wasn't working. “Mr. Mustang?”

“Hm?”

“You haven't, by any chance, seen the photograph from the mantel in the parlour, have you?”

He fixed her with a strange look. “The one of the woman?” he asked.

“Yes.” She tried not to seem too eager. “Does my father have it?”

Roy Mustang rubbed at the back of his neck. “Um. No. He doesn't.”

“Do you know where it is?” she asked. “I've been looking all day, but I can't find it.”

“I actually... went to make a new frame for it,” he said. He had the decency to blush and look ashamed. “I... went to pick something else up and I accidentally knocked it over... and I fixed the glass, of course, but... the paint on the frame itself was peeling so badly... I thought that a metal frame might be better. Something that won't rust, either.” He paused to allow her to chastise him, but she said nothing. He raised his eyes to meet hers, and she couldn't help but notice how beautiful his eyes were. And he'd seemed genuinely sorry. She pursed her lips, and he continued. “I just need to run into town and see if I can find some aluminum... I did put it back in its old frame for now, but...” He trailed off. “I should've told you when it happened. I apologise. I'm so sorry for worrying you.” He ran a hand through his hair.

Riza bit her lip. “Well... you should have told me, but... at least you fixed it. Although you really should have put it back and asked me about reframing it.”

“You're perfectly right; I apologise.” He cleared his throat. “I can get it right now, if you'd like. I'll... still make the new frame if you want. I thought aluminum would be best because its composition prevents it from rusting. Although if you'd prefer, I can just get some paint and repaint the current frame? I did completely repair it.”

Riza wasn't sure what to say. On one hand... he'd taken the photograph without telling her. But on the other... he'd repaired it and he wanted to make a new frame for it. She had to admit that a new frame would be nice. “I... I think it's very kind of you to take it upon yourself to reframe the picture,” she said. “Although I wish you'd told me.”

Roy nodded. “I'm very sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'll go get it right now,” he told her. She nodded, and murmured a “thank you”. He stood up and left the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later, with the photograph in hand. He offered it to her and she took it. She absentmindedly brushed the frame with her pinafore.

“Would you still like me to make a new frame? I completely understand if you'd rather me not.”

She looked down at the photograph. It was the only image she had of her mother, and the frame  _was_  in a pretty bad state, and it had been even before Roy had repaired it. “That would be very kind of you,” she said. She felt blood rush to her cheeks, and she averted her eyes.

She didn't see Roy smile. “I'll go into town tomorrow,” he promised.

She murmured a thanks and asked if he would please excuse her. She hurried to the parlour and put the photograph back on the mantel. She made sure that it was securely pushed back, and couldn't stop herself from dusting it off again with her hand. Mr. Mustang was really too kind... although he did make her feel quite strange. Hopefully it would go away soon.


	2. Day Two: Constant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things never go away

He hated being alone at night. Some nights it wasn't so bad, but during the day he always had things which would help him keep his mind occupied. At night, he didn't have much. His apartment was cramped and small, and he could only imagine the shock of some of the people with whom he worked were they to see this place. He had a small bed, a wardrobe, a kitchenette, a table, a chair, and a bookcase stuffed to the brim. Only his aunt, really, knew how he lived, although he knew that Riza suspected. Hughes had known, but that was before...

Even the girls he dated had no idea; they either went to a luxe hotel or her place. Even if she were insistent... he'd just insist even more, and his charm would win out. Besides, what girl didn't want to spend a night with a charming war hero in a five-star luxury hotel?

Girls really did provide the best distraction – and sometimes men, too. He could fuck until he was exhausted and usually drift into a dreamless sleep.

It was just unfortunate that that wasn't often the case. He knew Chris would say that trying to get through his issues by using sex was unhealthy – hell, she  _had_ said that. But what else was he supposed to do? Ishval, with its unprecedented horrors, had left everyone damaged, one way or another. Hughes had managed to cope with a wife and child, but he was among the few. Besides, if he told anyone who hadn't fought alongside him how he felt – and Maes and Riza had been the only ones he'd ever told; they were the only two who could hope to understand – he'd likely be shut into an asylum. If he were lucky, he'd be psychoanalysed first. He'd certainly be discharged. In an stratocracy, there was no reason to keep an officer who could barely function outside of the field – it'd bleed into his office work and field work sooner or later, after all, and there were plenty of young men and women more than eager to take his place.

So he coped best he could, which was primarily through distraction. He did busywork around the office if a paper relating to battle came onto his desk. He had sex to avoid the nightmares. He drank to avoid feeling much of anything. It wasn't healthy, no, but it was better than an asylum.

In an asylum, he could never hope to make any change to this country. He'd disappoint everyone who worked under him, and he couldn't do that. He couldn't be stuck in a madhouse just for being like every other veteran from Ishval. But he couldn't really explain that to his subordinates. Edward had been a child during the war, and so had Fuery, really. Havoc and Breda had still been in the academy when it ended, and Falman had been working a desk job in central. Of all of them, Riza was the only one who came close to understand what he'd gone through. Edward acted like he understood, of course, but he didn't. It was true that he hadn't lived too far from the fighting at the end, but he hadn't been there, not really, and the horrors in his past were really of a completely different manner.

Out of everyone with whom he voluntarily spent his time after the war, Riza and Maes had been the only ones to understand. It never once wavered, and he had to wonder how Riza coped with it. She didn't drink, and to his knowledge, she didn't use sex as a coping mechanism. She didn't have a husband or child. Maybe her distance to the overall fighting did something for her, but... he wasn't so sure. The realisation was disconcerting: she knew everything about him, but he barely knew a thing about her.

He didn't even really know if she felt the same constant, pressing guilt and trauma lying just beneath the surface; waiting to bubble up at even the slightest provocation. She always seemed so put-together... but then again, so did he. It was just that she could read him like a book, but he still could barely understand her, even after all these years.

He'd never really discussed Ishval with her, of course; not after the fact. Hughes had been the only one to share those horrors with; he hadn't wanted to burden her even more, especially not after she'd only gone into the war and suffered through all of that – and  _murdered_  by the hundreds, maybe even thousands – just to follow him and his naïve dream. He should never have told her. She would never have shown him her back, but that would have been for the best; how many people would be alive now, if he hadn't learned flame alchemy? And, selfishly, he wouldn't have to live through the trauma day in and day out, years after the fact. If he hadn't told her, then that would've been two lives, at least, which would have been better off. Roy would've become a foot soldier, probably, but without his rank as a State Alchemist, neither he nor Hughes would have been on the front lines. Make that three lives that he wouldn't have ruined.

He often wondered if he'd be better off if he just killed himself. He wouldn't have to live with the guilt and trauma, nor would he have to be sent to an asylum... but there was no way he'd leave Riza alone with the trauma from which she never would have suffered if it were not for him.

He wondered now what would've happened to her if she hadn't thrown her live away following him. She'd probably be married, maybe even with kids. She'd be a doctor or teacher or something which actually suited her personality. She wouldn't have wasted every day since her father died. She'd actually have friends of her own age and gender, with whom she could actually have normal discussions. He knew one thing for sure: she wouldn't be as miserable as she was now, and it was all due to him. He and Hughes had both, at least, individually decided on going into the military for their own reasons. They didn't even become friends until Roy was already a good way through the Academy. But Riza... she only followed him, and it was probably because he hadn't left her much of a choice. What was she supposed to do? Stay in the quiet town where she was an outcast for the rest of her life? At the least, he could have given her money for an apartment in East City. Anything would be better than where she was now.

And that wasn't to mention the thousands of Ishvallans who might have actually survived were it not for flame alchemy and a sharpshooter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it isn't obvious, Roy has PTSD  
> I drew from how the British and Germans dealt with PTSD during and after WWI, although I focused mostly upon Britain, because, despite the fact that Germany made advances largely due to the fact that their government had been (and remained in some part) largely composed of retired military officers, they also saw psychiatry and psychology as sciences, and due to this, believed that PTSD was physical as well as mental (wow they were right quelle surprise). I didn't really get that feeling from the FMA manga (although more so, i think, from the 03 anime; in that there was less of an air of "keep calm and carry on" which was largely the british way for coping.)
> 
> Roy is also clearly being pessimistic about his options; what he described isn't necessarily what would happen to him. It's likely, given his position, he'd be psychoanalysed and probably receive therapy of some sort, but he'd also probably not be allowed to move up the ranks, because combat-related PTSD can have an alarming rate of violence, even when it is (almost always) unintentional. Violence toward the "enemy" is clearly seen as a good thing, but when someone reacts violently to flashbacks and even nightmares... people are reluctant to allow them into a position of considerable power. Records of combat-related PTSD's (as opposed to purely trauma-related) relationship to violence date back, I believe, to either the Thirty Years' War or the Hundred Years' War. So. A long time.
> 
> Combat-related PTSD been documented as a medical, or at least psychological condition, since the Crimean War. The Russo-Japanese War and obviously WWI made it more prevalent. The British trace it back to the Boer War, but considering how they dealt with it... the only reason to mention it is because it was widespread.
> 
> Although PTSD wasn't recognised as PTSD until, I believe, the Vietnam War. During and after WWI, it was grouped with what is now recognised as Acute Stress Disorder under the label "Shell Shock"; so there were conflicting beliefs, due to the high recovery rate of Acute Stress Disorder and the... almost nonexistent, without proper treatment, recovery rate of PTSD. (Acute Stress Disoder being temporary, and PTSD being very long-lasting, although the former can certainly develop into PTSD). WWII, I think, called it "combat stress", which was much the same thing as shell shock, only... well, there were fewer artillery bombardments in WWII, so it got a different name.
> 
> Wooo can you tell I wrote a 20-page paper on combat-related PTSD and how it's been dealt with up to and through the 1920s?


	3. Day Three: AU/Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inglourious Basterds crossover

Riza was one of the lucky ones, she supposed. At least... she'd been able to avoid the slaughter by posing as an Amestrian. It wasn't difficult; she'd lived in Amestris her entire life, and her father had been Amestrian. She knew the culture and the language... and most importantly: she looked it.

Perhaps strangers saw something bizarre in her eyes, but they never outright questioned her. She was sure some people knew, but didn't tell the army, due to resentment, no doubt.

She'd managed to scrape her way from the small Eastern town close to the borders to Central City: the capital of Amestris. To her disgust, the place was crawling with soldiers, and State Alchemists worst of all – some of them were still out there, slaughtering her people as they spoke to her with a “charming” smile which left her feeling sick.

There was one soldier in particular who irked Riza, and it had all started one quiet evening... or as quiet as an evening got in this part of Central. She had been outside of the cinema – her cinema, really – changing the letters. She heard a voice from below which nearly made her fell off of the ladder. It was some state alchemist, and she knew better than to ignore him. He wanted to chat about cinema. He acted friendly and calm, as if he hadn't come back from slaughtering god knew how many of her people. He tried to engage her in a discussion about directors, but she didn't rise to the bait. Not any more than she had to, anyway. He asked her name, so she handed him her papers. He looked surprised, but accepted it. “Elizabeth,” he read. “That's a pretty name.” She thanked him with a lump in her throat and took her papers when he handed them back to her. He maintained a fairly cheerful demeanour during their entire conversation. He wore his dress uniform as a point of pride. What was there to be proud of?

It made Riza sick to think about. She barely made it inside to vomit after he'd left, with a winning grin and a promise to return.

She had to do something.

She hoped that he'd forget about the girl at the cinema, but of course he hadn't. He came in the next day for a matinée and had attempted to flirt with her. She'd been as cold as acceptable.

He “ran into her” in a café later that week, clearly overlooking her disinterest and trying to explain that he was “more than a uniform,” as if that held any sway. He frowned when she told him that she wasn't interested, only to be fawned over by blue-eyed Amestrians moments later.

He said that his family ran a cinema in East city, as well as a bar. She responded with only as much as she needed to. He asked her if she'd filled her house since the war started. She told him no. He suggested doing a big event. With what money?

More soldiers came over to fawn over him, this time with girlfriends. What kind of self-respecting woman would allow herself to be seen on the arm of someone in an Amestrian military uniform? It was a slaughter, not a war.

She found out then that he'd slaughtered a thousand Ishvallans single-handedly after being taken prisoner. Burned them to a crisp. It had all been a ruse, of course, but he'd “saved the foot soldiers a lot of trouble.” They praised his valour and courage. What courage? He could've killed them all any time he'd wanted, with one hand tied behind his back. Even against a thousand Ishvallans, it was hardly a fair fight. She hoped he had nightmares about the smell of burning flesh.

He told her after they left that he was to be the star in a new propaganda film. Of course. What better to sell the dehumanisation of an entire race of people than praising a mass-murderer? She rolled her eyes at his excitement, and he told her that she reminded him of his sister. Not really his blood sister, he explained, which made no real difference to her, but one of the girls his aunt had raised him with. A house full of women, and two dead parents. She wondered if that's why he decided to give up any chance of being a decent human being to become a soldier. His parents were dead, so why not him? If he had died along with his parents, more than a thousand Ishvallans might still be alive.

He went on about the film for quite a while; he talked about how much publicity he'd been doing – that was why he was in Central instead of on the field – and how much of a pain it was to be roped into playing himself for this film. She hoped he choked on his coffee. She needed to get out of there; she stood up, maintaining some semblance of calmness, and wished him luck on his film premiere and made some excuse to leave. Well, that was it for him, right? After the premiere, he'd be out of the city.

Unfortunately, that was not the last she saw of him. The next day as she was setting up the marquee, a black car pulled up, and two military officers demanded she get in. She was sure that they were going to dump her in Ishval, if they didn't kill her there, but instead they drove her to one of the nicest restaurants in Central, and escorted her to a table. Her slight relief disappeared the moment she saw Roy Mustang grinning like a cat, surrounded by a number of high-ranking soldiers and state alchemists, as well as the minister of propaganda. God damn it.

After the most terrifying round of introductions she'd ever had in her life, they told her that the premiere for Mustang's film would be held in her cinema. It wasn't a request. She couldn't deny them. So she formulated a plan.

It required help, but that she could handle. After all, someone who was _just_ Amestrian enough to not be considered Ishvallan could still want to exact revenge. So that's exactly what she and Miles did.

They made a film, to be edited into the reel, after which Miles would burn down the cinema during the premiere... with all the high ranking military officials – and even the Führer himself – locked inside.

Unfortunately, there was a hitch.

Roy Mustang, apparently unable to handle the film, came up to the projection room. She barred the way and told him to leave, but he wouldn't listen. Even telling him that his place was with the Führer and minister of propaganda didn't make him budge. “I don't like this part,” he said. Oh, so the war hero – criminal, really – couldn't handle seeing the horrors he'd committed? She resisted the urge to make a snappy comeback. “Roy, I'm sorry, but you can't be in here,” she told him. When she tried to use the reel change as an excuse, he grinned. “You should let me. It's been years.”

She held her ground, but he wouldn't leave her alone. “Have you never been told 'no' before in your life? You _cannot be in here_ ,” she told him. He set his jaw and forced his way in. “Do you have any idea who you're talking to?”

“An entitled war criminal,” she replied, furious now.

“I'm not a man you tell to 'go away'. I've killed over a thousand Ishvallans with just a snap of my fingers... what do you think makes you so different, that you could defy me?”

She backed away from him, but he only came closer. Fortunately, the sound of gunfire outside provided her salvation: he turned to face the door, she pulled a gun out of her pocket, and opened fire.

She rushed to execute the reel change, and while her back was turned, Roy grabbed his own gun from his position on the floor, bleeding out, and shot her until the barrel was empty. In crippling pain, she dragged herself up to the reels to execute the change. She pulled the lever and fell to the ground.

She was barely still alive when the flames of the burning cinema engulfed her.

She hoped Roy Mustang was alive to feel the pain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably would've been better to have Riza as the sniper but I can't see her personality ever coming close to Zoller's, but I can see it coming close to Shosanna. Roy, on the other hand... I could easily see him as a Zoller figure. Complete with PTSD which everyone and their mother overlooks!  
> I should say that under no circumstances do I ship Shosanna and Frederick. None. Ever. ~~21st century? no. all they have in common is that they're film nerds.~~ But I do think, circumstances considering, they could be parallel to Roy and Riza, who I do ship together.
> 
> I did reference the script heavily, but I think I managed to make it my own well enough, and I did focus _only_ on the scenes featuring Shosanna, since Riza takes her place, and it is Riza's PoV.


	4. Day Four: Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even their chance to atone for their sins was wrought with selfishness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way late and pretty short but here we go

They'd insisted that the trial be public. A private trial would benefit no one. They had no desire to save face; quite the opposite, in fact. They'd done things for which nothing could ever hope to atone. Still, they saw this as their chance to attempt to atone for their crimes. And crimes they were. At night, they still had nightmares of what they'd done in Ishval. But they didn't want pity – they didn't deserve it, nor sympathy. What they'd done was unforgivable.

Somehow, though, they still managed to make it all about themselves. Everyone focused on their actions, and spoke of them with a distance that could only be afforded to those who had never had to suffer through racial profiling, let alone genocide. Despite the actions of Scar to help bring down Father, not a single Ishvallan was called to the stand. Everyone called was Amestrian.

The media sympathised with them. Said they were only following orders. As if that made what they did any less unforgivable. But to the people in the country who had never seen the impact of the war, Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye were martyrs. Martyrs who had murdered thousands of humans on sight.

They weren't the only ones, either, although they'd insisted upon being the first. They'd asked Führer Grumman to continue trying everyone who had earned the status of “war hero” in Ishval. Every state alchemist and every sharpshooter. Bureaucrats. Anyone who had had a big hand in the genocide. They wanted it to be clear that this would never happen again.

Dissolving the stratocracy had proved to be more difficult than planned. There were riots and revolts and assassinations all over the country. The people didn't know what to do with a democracy, and it ended up being even more dangerous and tumultuous than the military dictatorship.

But Roy Mustang had always been one to think in ideas. He was much too idealistic for his own good, and that idealism came with a strong side of selfishness. He pretended to be selfless, sure. He'd convinced himself of it easily enough.

But he put his guilt and his ideas and his plans above the lives and safety of others. And Riza, with such a dependence on him that many wondered how she'd ever managed to function as Bradley's adjutant, followed in his footsteps. She'd been even more delusional than he'd been, and it never once occurred to her to try to make a life of her own after Roy Mustang gave her his card.

She was shot to death for her troubles, although it was a sad consolation for the living relatives of the thousands she'd shot dead just for being in her range.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although following orders to the death is a legitimate psychological phenomenon, anyone who uses that as an excuse (rather than an explanation) is completely full of it.  
> The Ishvallan War of Extermination was filled to the brim with Holocaust references, so please don't whine about "but roy and riza feel bad!!!". uh. yeah. okay. would you say that about an SS officer? No? well there's your answer.  
> Besides, even if Roy and Riza had resisted and had been drafted instead, they would have likely been foot soldiers on the fringe. The Ishvallan War was absolutely going on when Roy became a State Alchemist (Ed was a baby when it began, and considering Roy is around 14 years older than Ed... there's no way it wasn't going on when he was a teenager), so there's really no logical reason he wouldn't assume that he'd be using his alchemy to murder people en masse. None.


	5. Day Five: Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conspiracy theories are always too neat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again! But here! ~~it's bad and I am under no delusions that it isn't. but I did it.~~

They had it all figured out. Bradley thought that he was invincible, but somehow, a handful of soldiers and a group of children were going to manage to outsmart him. Somehow. After all, who better to fight a group of inhuman monsters than a bunch of children and a small handful of soldiers?

They headed down to the lair that Mei Chang had told them about. It was dark and dreary and made their hearts beat out of their chests. True to Mei and Scar's word, there were chimeras, but they made no move after them. They looked on sullenly from their spots.

_Well, that's strange_ . But they'd get over it.

They got to the supposed lair to find King Bradley lounging in an armchair, a chimera next to him. A look around confirmed that it was indeed a secret cellar, but one used for alchemical experiments. King Bradley smirked when Riza questioned him about the homunculi. “Oh, we do exist,” he assured her. “But why in the world would we want to... what was it you said? Turn the country into a philosopher’s stone?”

They gaped. For some reason, the extreme improbability had only served to convince them that what they'd pieced together – and what Bradley had confirmed – was indeed something that was going on right under their noses. Perhaps it was just a natural reaction. It was easier to pretend that awful things were the work of some large conspiracy which could be overturned, rather than that of individuals, for which no grand plan could account. A conspiracy was easy: you cut down the people in charge, and the conspiracy ceases to exist. Individuals are unpredictable and must be handled case by case. It was more reassuring, in a way, to believe that all of the great ills in Amestrian history had been due to a conspiracy.

It was easier to believe that the murder of thousands of people, including Roy's best friend, had been the work of some grand scheme thought up by a clever lunatic.

But it turned out not to me the case.

Bradley assured them that the homunculi were real – how could they not be, after all they'd seen? But there was no grand scheme. Envy was indeed a psychopath, but he was a lone agent. What most of the homunculi had wanted was power. What kind of power would destroying the country and everyone inside it bring? He criticised their naïveté to believe the story he'd fed Roy. “Mustang I could believe,” he said, “But to know that there are so many incompetent officers in our military...” He shook his head. “There's no danger to your countrymen,” he added, although he said nothing about their own safety. Envy had been taken care of, and so had Lust. Pride was under Bradley's watch for a reason: he was dangerous, but even he had no plans to destroy the country.

Bradley assured them all that he had no intentions of letting Roy get to power, but nor did he intend to kill any of them. “No one would believe you if you did tell anyone,” he said. He was right.

Edward tried to argue, but everyone else saw the truth. And if they killed Bradley, there would be no one to control Pride, who was the biggest danger. They knew that there was nothing left to do. Nothing left they _could_ do. There was no chance of overthrowing the government, and no chance of Roy climbing the ranks to Führer... and no grand scheme.

Everyone but Edward recognised defeat, and Alphonse finally managed to talk Edward down and get him to leave. After all... Bradley still had the power to hurt them and their loved ones, conspiracy or not.

Roy went home that night and drank. And drank. And drank. He drank so much he passed out.

He woke the next morning with a blanket curiously thrown over him and a glass of water two feet away from his head. He forced himself up and examined the glass.

“I let myself in,” Riza said. She looked a bit worse for the wear, but she wasn't hungover. She didn't drink. He had no idea how she coped. 

He blinked groggily and put a hand to his aching head.

“Drink the water,” she ordered, “and a few more glasses. Then you can sleep it off.” Sleeping it off wasn't an option. It was an order. And... to be fair to Riza, it was probably better than trying to drink it off.

He managed to nod and keep down the water. “Thanks.”

“Sir... please don't... lose track of yourself, like you did...” _When Hughes died_. She didn't say it, but he knew she'd meant it. 

“I won't,” he promised. This was just a wrench in the plan.

A very big wrench.

It was much less difficult to get to power exposing a conspiracy and overthrowing a corrupt government in one fell swoop... but now... that was never going to happen. He needed to reevaluate his options.

But for now, he slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever people talk about plot holes in FMA, none of the manga-only fans want to admit that the big conspiracy theory with Father was... overly convenient, to say the least. (And somehow all of the powerful alchemists were named characters who had already been relevant to the plot??)  
> I love the manga, but that arc is just too ridiculous.


	6. Day Six: Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories aren't always sweet.

It was never as hot in her memories as it had been in reality. Even the hottest days in Central City couldn't hope to compare. In Ishval, the days had been sweltering and the nights freezing. The two extremes were unforgiving, and she longed for her house in Amestris for the first few weeks. Those first few weeks had been hell. She'd had to adjust to the climate quickly... and she'd had to adjust to human targets rather than clay pigeons and thin metal plates. Perhaps the physical distance lent something to her emotional distance. Perhaps it was the propaganda the media spewed: Ishvallans were violent and a threat to Amestrian peace. Maybe shooting at them long enough managed to allow her to dehumanise them. Whatever the case... after the first few weeks, she barely felt anything once she hit a target. By the time she left, she felt a strange sort of pride each time she brought a target down. Target. Civilians, really. The Ishvallans had had no real military, and their side of the “war” existed purely of ragtag defence, which would get blown to bits by whichever state alchemist was closest.

She was stationed near Roy Mustang more than once, and wondered after the fact why the smell of burning flesh was so much more pungent when he killed than when he'd burned her tattoo. She'd had distance in the field... but when he'd burned her back, the flesh which was boiling was her own. Perhaps it was just the sheer number of burning bodies when he snapped his finger. Seeing Roy Mustang at work in Ishval made her thankful for the first time that alchemy had never come naturally to her. One shot to a vital region had to be an easier way to die than burning alive.

But even sniping caused nightmares.

She knew that she deserved them, of course. How could she not? The blood of hundreds, even thousands of human lives was on her hands. The nightmares and flashbacks were no less than she deserved for her actions.

So she kept reliving the war, if one could even call mindless slaughter a “war”.

The blood was brighter, the gunshots louder. Everything happened in slow motion.

Following Roy Mustang was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, the dumbest decision she'd ever made. But he was handsome and charming and he truly wanted to make the country a better place. Now she couldn't leave him and his goal. Nothing could atone for her sins, she knew, rationally. But following Roy Mustang and trying to aid him in his goal to become Führer gave her some vague sense of purpose. She told herself – lied to herself, really – that if she helped Roy become Führer, maybe what she'd done in Ishval would be overwritten. Or, at least, they could see, together, that everyone who had actively participated in the genocide would get their trial and execution. It was the least she could do, although in reality it didn't mean much, when most of the Ishvallans had been brutally murdered in their homes and the rest were living in slums, held in disdain by every Amestrian they encountered.

She was selfish, she knew. And deluded.

She blamed herself.

She didn't know why she couldn't bring herself to blame Roy. Or maybe she did. Without her, after all, he wouldn't have become the flame alchemist. She'd been the one to give him that power of destruction, although she'd really been no more than a pile of notes. He'd been handsome and charming, and she'd believed in his dreams. They'd both been naïve. She'd been infatuated, to tell the truth, and in her infatuation, she'd shown him her back. Her infatuation had brought about the deaths of thousands of living, breathing human beings. Had Roy never seen the array on her back, he might have still been called to fight in Ishval, but as a foot soldier. He'd have, at the absolute most, hundreds of lives on his hands. Not tens of thousands.

And she felt herself to blame.

Not that she ever told him. Of course not. It would only make _him_ feel guiltier. That wasn't to mention... she wasn't entirely certain that he'd realised her infatuation. Roy Mustang was excellent at reading people, but as he'd never said anything, she still held out hope that he hadn't noticed. Maybe if he noticed, he'd blame her.

He'd blame her for the inescapable memories. For the hot desert sun pounding down, despite their white cloaks. For the blood and bubbling, burning flesh. For the smells that made her retch, even in her memories. For the sand which found its way everywhere. For the orders barked at them. For the congratulations upon a particularly “productive” day. For the overwhelming guilt. For the faces of those they were about to murder. For hell on earth.

The dreams were even worse, and she was sure that Roy had them, too. His were probably worse than hers. She'd been afforded some distance, and some measure of “clean” deaths. Roy Mustang had been afforded no such comfort.

Not that either of them deserved any comfort. She'd seen to that the day they'd buried her father.

Of course... he should have known better. The war had been raging already when she'd showed him her back. She should have known better. State alchemists were already being used as killing machines... why had either of them believed, even for a second, that Roy Mustang would be permitted to be any different?

So she took the memories, even though sometimes they were vivid enough to make her vomit, as some sort of penance which she didn't deserve.

Most days, she wasn't even sure she deserved death by firing squad.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as I'd have wanted, but at least this one focuses on Riza.


End file.
